Gone, till I change (2011)

Day 1

Day 1. I woke up in London with the rising sun. My stomach was twisted with hunger and I was trembling with fatigue. All night long I zapped between three movies to finally fall asleep and miss the greasy frozen croissant and watery filtered coffee.

On the way to the train connecting the basement of the airport downtown, I purchased a muffin at a Costa Café, Europe's version of our Tim Hortons. I easily spot the London Underground symbol: a red circle crossed out by a navy blue rectangle. The elevated train, called Overground, offers me a bird's eye view of the West London Suburbs. The morning light, piercing through the windows of the wagon, warms my skin and contracts my pupils. The two-floor houses, piled up below the rails, tell of the Victorian era and the industrial revolution. Under an astonishing azure blue sky, these narrow buildings, their chimneys of brick, pointed roofs and lush green lawns disappear from my sight as the train flies towards the city center. Enveloped in the white and silent light, I enjoy the rocking motion.

Approaching the city center, the train plunges under the city, suddenly interrupting my fragile serenity. Holborn Station. This is my destination. With my one-ton suitcase, I can hardly extricate myself from the station. The twenty steps on my way out exhaust the last of my strength, my merino sweater is soaked with sweat and my fingers bruised and crushed by the handle. Next to me, two Spanish girls are laboriously pulling their luggage, twice as big as mine. That makes me feel better.

Finally, I see the sky. Completely covered. As I was warned. Around me, everything is gray: sidewalks, anthracite asphalt, pale faces and dusty cars, concrete and brick buildings.

The agency should be very close to here. For the umpteenth times, I turn over and upside down the city map. Here. Just one more street to cross. I walk towards the road, quick glance to the left, step onto the causeway, glance to the right...

Wow! A car! Coming from... the right! I almost got hit! I am frozen on my end of the sidewalk. London's traffic system disrupts all the reflexes I've acquired since childhood. Trying to acquaint myself with the traffic flow, I let my pupils run from left to right, then from right to left a hundred times. A long analysis is needed before I risk myself again... with long strides.

On the other side, I am relieved to reach the agency's narrow door, which opens onto a staircase just as narrow: the last one to climb with my damn suitcase. So far, contrary to rumours of London, I have not met any pickpocket, street gang or tear gas canister. Upstairs, the receptionist points to the sofa. Exhausted, dripping with perspiration, I collapse in it.

Now. I need to find accommodation and employment, and I paid this agency a little over three hundred dollars precisely to help me through these steps. But I have very little hope.

I had already paid my first deposit and bought my plane ticket before I'd have the brilliant idea of reading other travelers comments on blogs. They accused the agency of abandoning them even though they hadn't found a job yet, leaving them in tiny, filthy rooms overrun with rats. I wondered if I , like them, would find myself penniless, my savings vanished, and so would my dream. I'd have no option other than to anticipate my return home, with just one more failure in my pocket. I've tried to recover my deposit, but this was in vain, even though I'd invoke, following my father's recommendation, the consumer protection law which allows you to get your money back within ten days after payment. No refund possible. I had to face my fate. Sunk in a bath with the Manual of the Warrior of Light, I prepared for combat.

Now, alone in the heart of the huge city, slumped on my suitcase, misty mind, thick eyelids, heavy legs, I wait, resigned, the address of the room I'll share with the rats.

My hostel is located at Willesden Green station, between the metro's zones 2 and 3, thirty minutes away from the city center, zone 1. At my arrival, the manager, a paunchy Italian of a frowning with a scowling look, gives me the key of my sharing room: six travelers share three bunk beds, a fridge and a one-square-metre bathroom. Each of us pay ninety pounds per week, so approximately one hundred and thirty-five Canadian dollars. In Quebec, we would pay less than half of this price. Is London that expensive, or is someone getting richer at our expense? "Two French and two Spanish girls are in the room, the manager informs me. They might be sleeping." It's 2PM.